


On A Scale of One to Ten

by jlpierre



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Medical, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:35:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22388050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlpierre/pseuds/jlpierre
Summary: "Are you bored in your life, Hermione?" She stared at him in mixed shock and partly frozen from his eyes. "How would you like to be the most intelligent person in most rooms? Put your almost degree to good work, from the get-go?"She placed her hand around her glass, feeling the condensation meet her palm. "Why do I think this offer is involving something dangerous?""Because you're the most intelligent person in the room...except me, of course."
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 7
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Hermione noticed he had entered the library, she had spotted him swanning around her sacred place, carefully walking around the medical textbooks.

In truth, she had only noticed him because of everyone else. The whispered gasps, the women who became enthralled with nothing _usually_.

They were the only reason she lifted her head from the trolley, and that was when she finally saw him.

He, as to be expected to catch the eyes of a sea of university librarians, was dressed impeccably—his aftershave smelt of old money and wood. His hair was the colour of darkness, curled but styled, so it never fell over his forehead or eyes. What caught her eye the most was the hue of blue; they way it glittered as it wandered over her; it froze her to the core. The one thing Hermione knew with confidence was that a man like _him_ did not belong in a dusty place like _this,_ and he most _definitely_ wasn't a student. He didn't speak to her the first time she noticed him.

On the second visit, Hermione learnt he was well-spoken, and to the point, as he addressed one of the blondes she hadn't bothered learning the name of—all beauty and no class, and little brain between her ears had been Hermione's thought.

She had attempted to be more polite to the other girls, and especially the newbies. She had previously been ostracised by them ever since she was called a ' _bitch'_ by Marlene McKinnon. In Hermione's defence, she had caught Marlene marking the pages of the romance section—something Hermione initially had been accused of doing. Her attempts at being kinder had fallen short, often mumbling under her breath or choosing to work alone, she had little time for airheads and truthfully took this job for a break in her studies—libraries had always settled her.

The sanctity of the books, and the contract she signed for the job, made her forgive herself for ruthlessly grassing on her colleague. However, she knew it didn't teach her anything about interacting with others, although her degree in biology did give her the choice of working alone in the future.

Hermione had little to do with the man on his first visit or his second. The _third_ , however, was where she found herself targeted by his eyes. Her hands were full of old tombs, the smell of old parchment and ink filling her senses, only to be tainted with the scent of danger and acts of unforgivable nature. It didn't surprise her when she turned to come face to face with the eyes of a crystal storm, she somehow had anticipated it.

Without a desk or a sea of other librarians in her way, Hermione found she was able to commit his features to her mind, not needing to fight for a closer look. He had a perfect nose and the way his eyebrows, were naturally shaped, framed his piercing eyes perfectly—giving him an edge of softness although she knew he was anything but. His lips, thin and pink, had a cigarette balancing between them, not lit but still not following the rules displayed on entry to her work.

"Good afternoon," he said with his rich, polite voice said. It filled the space between them, trapping them in an exchange she hadn't agreed to. "How are you today, _Miss_?"

She cleared her throat, mustering her voice from whatever depths it had crawled into at the sight of him—not sure if through suspicion or astonishment of his features.

"Hello, sir. I have my hands full, but one of the others can kindly lead you to whatever section you require," Hermione said, as politely and calmly as she could—not wishing to show the vulnerability she felt.

Her skin prickled under his eyes, feeling him look deep within her, as though he could read her thoughts or know her pain. She wasn't sure if it was because her body reacted in a way unregistrable by usual self, or if the alarm ringing in her mind was making her on edge, but something in her made her want to run. It didn't matter that her legs remained stuck to their spot, her flight or fight kicking in, because he stepped into her personal space, filling it with haunting aftershave she'd never been able to forget, a warmth she wasn't sure she'd ever felt. His hands ran down her arms, and Hermione was surprised at their temperature—heavily expecting cold skin—only for them to graze against her once more as he removed the large tombs from her hands. Leaving just two, rather than the five she had been holding.

"There," he demonstrated, "you're free for me now, _surely_?"

She narrowed her eyes, judging him and attempting to waken the logical part of her brain up from the lustful coma it had fallen into. Hermione speculated that the man often got what he wanted; she wondered how many women had fallen at his feet without him muttering a syllable; she wanted to ask if he was disgruntled she wasn't like that.

"You're rather rude, _Mr…_?"

The man smirked slowly, the unlit cigarette rolling on his lips before pulling out a lighter and flashing his face with orange light. Hermione hated the way his chiselled cheekbones illuminated, the jawline that looked like it could cut her—and a part of her wanted it too. She hated him, of course, she did, but that was the logical part of her; the lustful, womanly side wanted him, and she had no idea why. She suspected it was the same biological part that made other women act like loons around him.

He dispersed smoke to the side once more, and Hermione remembered how much she despised cigarettes and the smell that punctured the air because of them. For a second she had forgotten, lost in his eyes and the way he looked at her, and finding that never before had she wanted to smother her clothes in the disgusting scent, just to be close to him.

He was a mystery, an enigma, that if she didn't see so often in her library, she wouldn't believe existed. He was something she couldn't explain, which made it harder to keep a level head around him; he seemed like something from another time, another world, and she wanted nothing more than to be wherever he came from.

"Riddle. Doctor Tom Riddle," he replied coldly, blowing smoke through the side of his lips, and her eyes watching the smoke twist and turn up into the air, before disappearing from view. "You?"

"Hermione."

"Of course," he smirked, "how original, a girl from a book, working _with_ books."

Her cheeks flushed, and her insides twisted infuriation. Being mocked was something she despised more than being ignored, and she resisted sharpening her tongue and firing poisonous words at Tom—they'd most likely repel from the suit he wore like armour, specially made for such attacks. Instead, she stood, fixed, back tensed, and shared him down with eyes that screamed words her lips would never say—choosing instead to play his game.

"If you are referring to the Hermione from Shakespeare, you are mistaken. I was named because of the Greek messenger God; my father said I was a message from God to my mother—I was a blessing. I'm also not just _working_ with books, I'm finishing my medical degree, this is purely an outlet to allow me to think."

The sides of his lips curled, but all he did was give the nod in response before licking his lips. "I need your assistance, Hermione," Tom softly said, a hint of seduction in his tone, but she didn't bend—she _wouldn't_.

Hermione pulled the books in her hands closer to her chest, finding the courage she kept close to her heart. "I suggest you head to the main desk, Mr Riddle. One of my _colleagues_ will be _sure_ to help you just fine."

Tom smiled, but not in joy or happiness like most smiles that expressed were made to make the recipient feel safe. His smile was a mixed blend of annoyance and showcased his patronising nature well. She did not feel safe, and she did not trust this man—no matter how handsome and well-to-do he seemed.

"I need _your_ assistance," Tom said, continuing to bring the cigarette to his lips, ignoring the signs and the books around them. "Your colleagues are... _fine_. I, however, need _you_."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I wish to dispute that. You don't need, _you want_. And I, am not free."

Tom smirked, harsher, more prominent. He moved over to a bench beside a desk, using his pointed polished shoe to move it from its place, before sitting down on the worn velvet. Hermione wanted to protest, to grab him by the cuff of his expensive coat and drag him back out into the cold—but she knew she wasn't strong enough or had the authority to ban someone from a public place.

She watched, fixated as he put out his cigarette on the side of his coat—as though it didn't matter that Ash was crumbling into the fabric, flames dying out against the expense that covered him.

"It was my _father's_ ," he snarled, watching her eyes flick to his coat and back to him before he smiled fakely up at her, "I'll wait for you to become free."

Hermione knew he was testing her, but she couldn't ignore the way her nerves tingled at the way he looked at her. "I'll try not to be too long," she lied, knowing she wasn't that busy, but something about him made her cautious, and she needed more time to deliberate about what she was going to do.

She contemplated telling someone that she'd be working with the handsome, but intriguing man, but it would be to no avail. No one would be worried, they'd be envious, and Hermione knew it would cloud their judgement. If for some unknown reason, she didn't come into work, they'd only suspect she got a lay—one they've been muttering she needed.

Moving behind a bookshelf, clutching the two leather-bound books close to her chest, she tried to steady her breathing. If only she could send a message to Harry, warn him that there was a strange man in her library, although she wasn't sure how concerned he would be after her speech about karma that had taken much of his night. She could message Lavender, but she like the librarians would be more impressed she had found a male—who _was not_ her roommate—that wished to hang out with her. There would be no chance, mobiles were no longer allowed on the premises during work hours—thanks to Hermione herself—and so she sighed, resting against a desk. She looked over the shelves, steadying her hands as she looked at the numbers, finding a place for one of the books in her hands.

Hermione knew she smelt danger on him, something terrible clung to him like an omen, but she couldn't fight her need-to-know, her inquisitive nature that so often got her in trouble. It had done with the newspaper, and later the temp job at the police department. Both of them firing her for sticking her nose where it wasn't qualified or needed.

She loved learning, and she loved her job, but it didn't stop her from shoving the books on the shelf—uncaring if that was their home or not—and turning back to the waiting _Tom Riddle_ to find what he wanted with her. Her heart hammered in her chest, her throat drying as she neared, but somehow his eyes fell upon her and simmered all her symptoms without even a smile.

"I'm free."

The two words clung to her tongue longer than she wanted. They resisting falling past her lips, her brain screaming to get away from the danger, but her curiosity forcing her to run directly into it. Her fingers stretched out at her sides, rubbing her palms down her skirt to disperse the sweat that had built in the short walk back to him.

Tom was watching her, hard pieces of ice trailing down her frame before landing on her face again. " _Efficient_ , I'll give you that." He clapped his hands to his thighs as he stood, his jaw tensing as she watched the ripples of his muscles in his neck and cheeks twitch before he smiled. "Follow me."

She didn't move, not for a second at least. The soles of his shoes greeted the marble as though they were one as if he owned the place, and the floor recognised him. Tom strode away from her—uncaring if she followed. Hermione did, however. She followed him right into the fire, cutting around bookshelves and paying complete attention to the labels, attempting to predict where he'd land. If she was to play him at chess, she wasn't sure she'd be able to beat him. Tom kept his cards close to his chest, even closer than most; Hermione expelled evident and lazy tips. She suspected he knew she'd flung the books on the shelf, and she doubted he knew her curiosity would get the better of her. Tom Riddle did not look like a stupid man; in fact, she wasn't sure she'd ever been around someone of his intelligence ever before in her life.

When they came to a stop, Hermione nearly landed into the back of him, pausing just in time. Tom didn't turn around. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the aisle, as she brushed her untamable curls behind her ear as she did the same. Crime. It wasn't an unusual request if she thought about it, but for him, this particular oddity of a person, it made her pulse quicken.

The air of danger she had felt before, grew more substantial, almost beaming and glowing around him. Her heartbeat thumped louder, and she could see his lips moving, but no words resonated with her ears.

"Are you looking for something _particular_?"

She didn't need him to face her; she could sense his smirk. His smile that spoke so many truths that it scared her. Her mother told her that all eyes were the windows to people souls, but this man, his eyes were as empty as his soul, but his smile told her everything. While Hermione knew from his lips that he was playing a wicked game, she remained stood by his side, and she knew she was playing a dangerous game by agreeing to play with him, but she wasn't one to surrender or lose. But then, Hermione wasn't sure if she was playing with him, or against him.

It was only as his long, bony fingers stretched out to scale the bookshelf that she realised what section he was interested in, and his eyes turned to her, freezing her blood and pausing her heartbeat. Her brain screamed to run, but for some reason, the rest of her body wasn't listening, a foreign part of her taking over. Hermione took a step closer to him, bridging the gap and whatever force had taken over her making her arm rise up as she held his suit covered forearm, feeling his muscles stiffen underneath. Hermione slowly guided his hand three books above, his smile widening up his chiselled cheekbones, making him look more handsome and haunting all in one, never taking his eyes off her.

She held his arm in place, his fingers lightly brushing the spine of what she knew he wanted, and the vein in her neck throbbed under the pressure and thoughts that exploded in her head. He had watched her; he had needed her because he had seen her read this book. Read this section, even.

"Thank you, Hermione," Tom said coldly, and her fingers let go of his arm, dropping it to her side as she flexed her fingers and wrist, unsure what had come over her. "You've been quite helpful."

Tom tilted the book, the spine meeting the shelf with a thud before slowly pulling it from its place. He turned it over in his hand, not looking at the summary or the cover, his eyes trailing her face, waiting for the flash of fear she should have been showing, but didn't.

The silence was deafening, and Hermione was sure that he could hear her brain screaming and her heart hammering. "No problem, Dr Ridd—"

"Tom," he interrupted. "You, Hermione, must call me Tom." His eyes were breaking from her, widening slightly as he looked over the cover of the book. " _In Cold Blood,_ huh. Thank you for the _recommendation_."

He stepped back the shelf, turning to face away from her and before he moved to check out the book, he looked over his shoulder, washing her in a cold shower. "You take care of yourself; I'll be seeing you."

Hermione nodded, struggling to swallow, never mind speak. He strode away, her throat relaxing as he did.

* * *

Unlike his famous last words, Hermione didn't see Tom in the library for the rest of the week. Even when she wasn't working, she was in here—always finding herself able to concentrate more than at the flat. Each day she was on edge, hiding out in the back with the new releases, unboxing them slowly and carefully as though they'd shatter like herself was close too. Every time she stepped on to the main floor, she looked over her shoulder, expecting blue eyes to pierce her around every corner.

When she finally placed her coat on her shoulders on one Saturday evening, a cold chill to the air as she locked the doors of the library, putting the keys in her bag with a definitive jingle as the weight of the week left her. She took strides she hadn't been able to do all week, some form of confidence and calmness flowing through her as she contemplated her evening.

Hermione could go home, sit in front of the television with the bottle of wine she had been saving, or she could visit Ron's pub, The Burrow, and lose herself in some trivial conversation she didn't understand about football. She chose the latter with certainty, turning down several streets, fumbling in her pocket for gum.

What she hadn't expected when she entered, was for the place to be packed, the televisions all around the walls covered with football, and she sighed, depleted. Ron caught her eye over the sea of sweaty men, and she smiled, happy to see Susan working with him again, the two apparently having made up. Hermione nodded her head in the direction of her usual booth, in the corner, hidden by bookshelves none of the Weasley's used.

Shuffling into the worn leather bench, unbuttoning her coat but not taking it off, finding comfort in the extra layer as though it would protect her. Hermione fell into the back of the bench, feeling the wood against her spine; she spotted Susan walking over with her usual.

"Susan," she greeted.

"Hermione," Susan said dryly as Hermione furrowed for notes. "On the house, as always."

Hermione smiled as sweetly as she could. "As always, you are impressed by that."

Susan didn't respond, turning on her heel and leaving Hermione in a whirlwind of flowery perfume and annoyance. Dipping her head, she pulled out her book from her bag, unsure if she'd be able to concentrate with the constant expelling of cheers from the adoring fans. She had lifted her drink, hovering it over with her lips, opening up to the page she was last on when Hermione noticed a shadow had fallen over her table. A cold chill fell down her spine, and she didn't need or want, to look up, but her head automatically did anyways.

"What a pleasant surprise, _Hermione_ ," Tom smiled, staring at her intently.

Narrowing her eyes, she tilted her chin up, staring at him just as boldly as he did at her. "Did you follow me here, _Tom_?"

"Rather presumptuous of you to assume that you would mean that much to me."

She blushed, unintentionally, wishing she had better control over her body and her flushes of embarrassment. Hermione knew he had a point, per se, but the coincidence was too extraordinary to be untrue.

"May I?" Tom asked, pointing to the chair opposite her. She nodded, watching him as he shrugged off his coat and lay it over the spare chair, sitting down as he adjusted his tie.

Hermione studied him, the way his shoulders squared as he sat, his back not resting against the spine of the chair. He was overdressed, profoundly, and it didn't seem to baffle anyone else in this place.

"You're quite overdressed," she announced from nowhere, and the corner of his lips twitched.

Tom furrowed in his coat pocket for something before retrieving a silver container. He didn't answer her, washing her in silence as he opened it with a click, and a neat line of cigarettes lay against the silver. He removed one with ease, the second from the left, and placed it on his lip. "Do you like to dance with the devil, Hermione?" He asked, lighting the cigarette with a lighter she hadn't noticed.

"It depends on his liquor," Hermione said, shuffling her weight on the bench as he inhaled on his vice. "You can tell a lot by what a man drinks."

Tom softly smirked just as Ron came over, placing a thin glass of water and a plate with a plain, simple, ham sandwich on the table. Tom lifted his head in Ron's direction, giving him a curt, but cold, nod; his hair perfectly still as he turned his head to look at her carefully once more. Hermione watched from the corner of her eye as Ron walked away, occasionally looking back at them over his shoulder, always protective, always watching, she mused to herself.

Tom blew out a mouthful of smoke with precision. "And what if they don't drink, Hermione?"

Hermione licked her lips. "I'd find that more concerning. It shows a man likes to keep a clear head. Not willing to lose control."

"Is that why you don't drink?" Her arms folded, suddenly feeling vulnerable. "Blackcurrant and soda-water in a wine glass? You are far too used to being the most intelligent person in a room. You won't find that comfort here, unfortunately." He flicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the sound echoing around them, even if the room was not at all silent. "Your friend. Related or choice?"

Her throat was closing, struggling to take in air as his eyes pierced into her. "Choice," she choked out.

"He keeps an eye on you, I suppose?" Tom smiled sinisterly. "A good man, truthfully. No one should trust a man in a three-piece suit who orders a ham sandwich. He's probably right."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why do you say that?"

"Well. While I don't deny the truthfulness of a ham sandwich, what I mean, is that there are no surprises—no extra sauces or meat to be dealing with. However, the sandwich isn't all I'm interested in," his brow cocked up as he paused. "I'm usually interested in the objects used to create it. What turns something from nothing to creation."

Hermione didn't alter her expression, keeping it fixed and piercing. "Are you an artist, _Tom_?"

"In so many words," Tom pushed the plate away, as though it was more demonstrative than necessary. "Are you bored in your life, Hermione?" She stared at him in mixed shock and partly frozen from his eyes. "How would you like to be the most intelligent person in most rooms? Put your _almost_ degree to good work, from the get-go?"

She placed her hand around her glass, feeling the condensation meet her palm. "Why do I think this offer is involving something dangerous?"

"Because you're the most intelligent person in the room...except me, of course."

She tapped her nails against the table, her eyes narrowing. "I'm bored."

He smirked knowingly, and she couldn't help but fall a little from her pedestal at his charm and looks. Hermione knew to give in, surrendering to what made her woman—what genetically made her weak—would mean she'd lose her power. But she suspected, right now, she didn't hold a lot of it herself anyway. Tom seemed to drain a room of its power, as though he could control everything and anything, even if she knew that was untrue.

"How would you like to feel what payback is like, Hermione?" Tom said without a tone at all. "How would you like to make biology become useful?"

Hermione blinked twice. "Will I have to do anything... _illegal?"_

Tom smirked almost worryingly, but still, no warning bells rang in her head. "Oh, most definitely." She swallowed, finding something stuck in her throat. "The ball is in your court, Hermione. My car is outside," he slid out of the chair as he winked at Ron, "You have two minutes, I do not wait around."


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione found herself stunned for several minutes, her eyes staring at the seat Tom had formerly sat in, not sure on what to do. Well, she did, but something inside of her made her not move.

If possible, she wanted to waste more time than she knew she had to currently spare—hoping the decision would be made for her. She tried to ponder whether or not to finish her drink, knowing full well that it wasn't that decision she was worried about making. Even if she didn't know the next time she would be able to drink.

Tom seemed like a man she should avoid, and yet, Hermione found that everything inside of her wanted to follow. He was intelligent—as he had pointed out—but also, she liked that he had picked her. While she pretended to herself, she was thrown off balance by his declaration and to follow him, even deep down, she knew she would. It wasn't just that he had piqued her interest in what he was offering, because the chance to flex her brain-muscles was low overdue. It was how she didn't seem to fear the _illegal_ answer more than she currently did.

Her fingers brushed her cheek, still finding them warm from the validation. She came to the conclusion that a compliment meant more to her than she initially expected.

Tom seemed like the sort of _someone_ who was able to know instantly what would make someone turn into butter. He wore it well, the faux innocence that hid the clever fox underneath. In a short conversation, he had managed to persuade her that he knew her, and could help her—and she could count on one hand how many times that same thing had been offered. None.

She suspected he knew that.

There was a good chance Tom already knew how hard she studied, how punctual and polite she was and had been. He likely knew that everyone in her classes hated her, and how the professors never chose Hermione for academic projects. She had never been given any professional ones either.

She _should_ be suspicious of him, and in her own way, she was, but she couldn't hide how much he had intrigued her, even if she pretended otherwise. He had likely already seen her eyes glow with the chance for more knowledge. How much he had rattled her; How he had made something inside of her bang against a cage, not knowing how a part of herself had always been locked away. How the smallest part of her had been truly alive.

Her hope, as futile as it was, wished he hadn't seen it.

She chose not to finish her drink, standing awkwardly as she brushed down her clothes and put on her coat. She was avoiding glancing at the bar, not wanting to see if eyes were on her or not. It wouldn't make a difference, she told herself, because she would be leaving with Tom anyway. But deep down, Hermione knew if Ron had looked at her, her feet wouldn't have been able to move.

Vibration shuddered through her coat, and Hermione pulled her phone out, finding a text from her mum.

**Mum:** _Hope today was better, love. Call me if you fancy a chat. Love you xxx_

She weighed it in her hand; the phone suddenly feeling heavy. Hermione never ignored her mum, but it felt wrong to reply when she was stepping into such an unknown with a man she didn't know. Her eyes scanned the text again, knowing no good could come from replying, or from even having it on her person.

Cautiously, she placed it on the table. She'd pretend she forgot it, pick it up tomorrow. _Ron was good; he'd keep it safe,_ she said to herself as she stepped out of the booth.

Her eyes caught Susan's, and Hermione knew that the moment they had, words would soon be spread; cruel words behind her back whispering untruths they did not know of. Ron was a kind man, but he was a jealous one too, and even if he had dalliances with whoever he wanted, Hermione knew the same couldn't be said for her. Susan had been kind once, but she, like Ron and Hermione remembered from school, that love could do the funniest things to kind people.

Ron didn't see Susan, not like Susan saw him; he missed the fluttering of her eyelashes and the glares she shot Hermione for, 'leaving and breaking his heart'. Ron had spun that tale when he took over the pub. He had, after all, been brought up with a strange vision of a woman least of all one who split up from him. Ron had never accepted that the reason they had ended, never wanting to see how drained she was of showing him how much her career meant to her.

Hermione didn't need to worry about that now.

Placing the strap of her bag on her shoulder, she took a deep breath, stepping to the door as she tried to steady her nerves. She didn't want to be too keen, childish taunts from her school bullies fluttering in the back of her mind, but she also didn't want to seem uninterested. After all, Tom did say he would not wait.

The cold air hit her as her eyes glanced over him, leaning against a black car, even in the misty rain, his car appeared shiny and clean—something else aligning with his appearance. She wondered if he had picked it himself, the car, or if it had been a compliment of the university hospital.

"Hermione, I'm pleased you decided to follow."

She nodded, set to open her mouth but found she didn't need to speak, watching instead as he opened the car door for her, and she tried to hide the blush over her cheeks once more.

No one had ever opened a car door for her, and even if this wasn't romantic, it had felt nice—nicer than she expected. It reminded her of black and white movies she had watched when she was little, and how romance had been told to her via fairytales and romantic comedies. This felt like neither of those options. Hermione knew this wasn't a romance; it was education, learning. But she couldn't ignore how it toed the line, but she couldn't quite work out why.

Tom leaned in close as she moved around the door, his aftershave licking at her senses. "Do you have anywhere to be tomorrow, _Hermione_?"

The way he said her name, as though it was something of beauty and not just a name, made her knees weaken. She wondered how far his charm had gotten him, if he had always been able to ride the coattails of it, or if it is something he self-taught himself to survive. The latter seemed more fitting, but she didn't dare question to find out for sure.

She suddenly felt nervous as she met the leather, her fingers sliding over the seat, feeling the expense beneath her fingers. She barely noticed the slamming of her door and him entering on his side. It was only with the roar of the engine did she wake from her daze. Watching as his hand took hold of the handbrake, and she looked up, staring at him—straight through his eyes into the inner workings of this strange, yet handsome man.

"How many women have sat where I have, Tom?"

His thin lips curled, the lines of his cheekbones turning harder and impressing more into his smile. "I won't lie to you; many women have sat in this car, Hermione. But no one has been invited to sit in it with the same intent as you."

"I assume that's meant to flatter me."

Her eyes scanned over the various buttons of the car, the screen that lit up, giving even more options she would have no clue what to do with.

"I wouldn't waste my time with flattery on you, Hermione—intelligence impresses you, not feeble words and false promises."

Hermione looked at him, attempting to work out if he meant anything he said. If the car, like his appearance, was for show, or if he had bought it for some trivial reason like miles or the comfort of a heated steering wheel. The men she usually drank with would do the latter, remembering Harry's insistence on his and Ginny's next car having a heated driving seat.

"Hermione, you never answered, do you have anywhere to be tomorrow?"

"No," she said, "No, Tom, I don't."

She swore she saw the corners of his lips twitch into another smile.

"Good," he replied, pressing a button that locked all the doors. "Remember your seatbelt, Hermione."

Hermione swallowed as she reached for it, finding his hand waiting for her to hand it to him so that he could clip it in.

* * *

Tom was still stood in the centre of the room, watching her as her back descended the wall, her bum meeting the floor with a thud. He was still positioned in the growing pile of blood, and Hermione wasn't sure why he hadn't moved. It was a perplexing thought to be stuck on, especially because she couldn't stop it from rolling and rolling around. Hermione concluded she was in shock, which was unsurprising for what she had just done—although, she wasn't sure she had really done what she had just done.

Hermione remembered the car ride and how the leather had felt under her hands. There was a lack of music in his car, except for the occasional sound of the indicator. She could even recall how she had relaxed into his company, not finding his silence worrying—Hermione realised now she should have. The sight of the university entrance, the sight of him handing her a white coat as he slipped his own on—her finger brushing over her name etched into the pocket, just like she had _always_ dreamt.

Everything else... it didn't feel like she had lived it. The blood on her hands told her she had.

She imagined her face was still twisted as her body crawled with shock and surprise. Tom's eyes, however, were only focused on her eyes, and she wondered if it was the only thing that indicated she was still alive. She couldn't hold his gaze if she tried, she couldn't keep her eyes fixed on anything; occasionally flicking to the body between them and then her red-coated hands.

The knife had felt good in her hands. The metal handle not cold or too thick—it had felt _just_ right. Hermione had felt the weight of it, just like Tom advised. He made her focus on his voice, his words slowly drowning out the sea of muffled pleas as Hermione did as he said. She found a momentary peace before she brought the knife down Marlene's chest. For a second, she felt like she wasn't herself, but instead trapped behind a sheet of glass, watching herself cut the skin of her colleague apart as her insides came into view.

His taunting words ringing around her head as though he had her under a spell, but Hermione knew that couldn't be true—she was strong, stronger than most. Yet, she hadn't fought it, hadn't even tried.

She had moved like it was _everything_ she wanted to do. She didn't care for the tears coming down the grey skin, and the wide eyes pleading with her.

But now Hermione wasn't sure she'd ever be able to unsee them. If she closed her eyes for anything longer than a blink, the image of Marlene flashed up. It seemed as though her mind had taken a photo, never letting her forget.

Hermione placed her hands on the floor, attempting to bring steadiness. She heard his voice speak something, but she didn't quite understand the words.

"I-I-killed her."

* * *

Tom hadn't been all that surprised—he had calculated what would happen the moment he asked if she wished to see an experiment. She told herself she was strong, but he knew when the act would be done, Hermione would discover how weak she, in fact, was.

Hermione was an intelligent woman, and she was also someone who strode for more knowledge—it was the perfect plan if he said so himself. But she was still human, an emotional one at that.

If he could reward himself for how much he had predicted, and then been right about, Tom was sure he could afford to get out from under the university. The place boarded him for free when he had no one and nothing—a debt the Dean felt necessary to remind him. Holding over him the murder, they had helped clear him off.

Tom would have happily gone down for it, but Dumbledore fancied being a hero—even when he stumbled over the sight of Tom covered in his own father's blood.

Albus, as charitable as he pretended to be, was never as innocent as he made out. He collected favourites too, even if he condemned others for it. Tom collected things also, usually people he could manipulate. Hermione had been different, and he had been more than willing for the challenge.

Now though, she was slumped on the floor, and he had hoped by now she would get up.

He had known she would leave the run-down pub and get in the car. She had come here, she had listened to his words, and she had sliced the flesh like a pro.

Tom may have nearly let her consider running when they first met, but even she was drawn to power—she was hungry for it. He had also expected her to be dubious of him, and squirm in the seat beside him in the car ride, but she sat comfortably, confidently, as though Hermione _knew_ she was meant to sit there.

Now though, Hermione knew she hadn't been. He had taught we her that without so much as speaking a word. She pretended to herself she could run with the big dogs, but Tom proved he was no dog, but a whole other monster entirely.

Tom was the one who made and broke people, and no one, other than him, should feel as assured as him in his own car.

When Hermione's body met the floor, the confidence from the car ride faded to nothing—as though it died like the poor woman beside her. She had a degree in biology, which meant she knew a lot of things about the human body that most didn't—but Hermione had no idea about emotions. She didn't know how to mask them, to control and bend them to suit her—not like him, not like she'd be able to if she just let go of who she was, and became who she could be.

Tom had known the moment he laid eyes on her that she was an asset. In truth, he had known as soon as he scrolled through the registered students of Hogwarts University. He knew from her GPA, her extracurricular activities, and that she did the most hours in the library, that Hermione Granger was not someone who likes to sit at home.

He very much doubted she expected to have _killed_ someone tonight—never mind her colleague.

The scalpel dropped to the floor with a metallic clang—music to both of their ears, if he was truthful—and Tom felt Hermione's eyes meet his. At first, she wasn't easy to read, but like evading fog in the countryside, the picturesque image came into view before he got himself worried.

Wringing his hands, smothering the blood all over his palms, Tom smirked. "Did you enjoy yourself, Hermione?"

"I-I _killed_ her."

Tom snorted. "Yes. Yes, you did. But that _isn't_ important—"

"—Not important—"

He didn't pause, even as she mumbled. "–How did it make you _feel,_ Hermione? Did you harvest it—the power?" He stepped closer, his expensive sole meeting the marble floor. "Did you _enjoy_ seeing the light fade from her eyes?"

Hermione began to shake her head, but her eyes, crazed with uncontrollable flames—like wildfires spreading through a forest—and he didn't believe her. Her weak, pathetic attempt at denial was easily seen through, and Tom wondered—contemplated—if Hermione really suspected he would believe her, or if she _felt_ she had to appear sincere. He didn't care. To him, it was another body—another lesson learned.

"Did you enjoy watching her heartbeat one last time, the sight of it, the colour of it. It's different than it is in the bodies they let you practise on," Tom continued, as though her unravelling barely registered to him. "An alive heart is always a different sight, isn't it?"

And then he was quiet, letting her process—as though he was really that kind. Except, he knew she was finding him opposite of kind. He knew Hermione would find the silence suffocating—exactly like it had been when Marlene McKinnon writhed on the table before her. He didn't appease her by filling. Instead, he waited for her to do something—to speak or make any noise at all—just like he had done before she had plunged the knife into Marlene's main artery.

"Why?" Hermione asked, breaking the emptiness in the room, displacing the tension. "Why _her?_ "

Tom darkly smiled, a wicked one—he didn't need to see his appearance to know how deadly it looked, he felt it; it came naturally to him when he was around her.

"She _bothered_ you."

Hermione shuffled her feet, and Tom paused in his steps towards her, watching her pathetically attempt to stand. "She-she _bothered_ me? That's it. That is why—"

"Now, now," Tom said, pointing his finger at her, waving it as he silenced her with his cold tone, "Don't attempt to be mighty here, Hermione. I didn't end Miss McKinnon's life, _you_ did. Did I give you the means? _Yes_. Did I enjoy watching you play real-life biology student? _Yes."_ Tom carefully took the last two strides towards her, basking in the way she looked at him—like a God, like a statue she wanted to get on bended knee for. "Did I enjoy watching you take her life? _Yes._ "

She struggled to swallow. "It's wrong."

Tom tilted his head, raising a hand so he could graze her cheek with his finger. She didn't flinch when he did—uncaring for the blood traipsed over his skin. "So is calling another a derogatory name, but, all's well that ends well."

"How can you be so blasé?" Hermione asked, instinctively moving into his touch—just as he expected her too. "This is your art, isn't it? What you were talking about at the pub, that is this, isn't it?"

He chuckled low and purposeful. Tom placed greater emphasis on it, making the laugh seem darker. "Fuck you're intelligent," he closed the gap between them, pressing her back into the wall as he moved his fingers under her chin. "Do you want me to ruin you, Hermione?"

"However, do you mean?"

She asked it with such faked innocence. Tom found himself surprised. Hermione didn't know he had already seen what lived behind her dark eyes. The jealousy, the need to be better—the continuous strive to be the _best_. He saw that hunger; he saw that she'd go to any length to do so. Hermione just wasn't aware of how much he did know. And he wasn't willing to share that _quite_ yet.

He tilted her chin up, forcing her eyes to stare into his. Her neck was extended, long and fully on view. He moved closed the last gap; their bodies flush against one another; he felt her curves, her breath on his skin.

"Oh," Tom smirked as he lowered his mouth, leaving barely a slither between their lips, "I'll ruin you however you _want_ , Hermione, you only need to ask."

He stepped back, putting distance between them as he briefly noticed her flushed expression. The blood rushed to her cheeks and neck, making her look so alive—so weak. Tom straightened his shirt, dipping his hand into his pocket as he pulled out his mobile and dialled the only number he cared for.

The calling tone irked him. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard to him, but when the call connected, he let out a content sigh.

"Lucius. We are _finished_ in here _,_ clean up."

Tom glanced at her, finding her ready for her next instruction. "Come, Hermione."

He found that she did.

**Author's Note:**

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